"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 11

Thursday, November 4th, 6:30 p.m.

Fr. Dan Cavanaugh stood at the sink in the kitchen of the St. Lawrence rectory. He rinsed off the plate and silverware he had just used to eat dinner. The housekeeper had prepared a delicious meatloaf with mashed potatoes earlier in the day, and as usual, although she cooked for only one priest, she made enough for at least four people. Fr. Dan hated to throw away so many leftovers each day. He hated it even more on the days when he gave in to temptation and wolfed down the entire meal. The way she cooks, it’s a miracle I don’t weigh 400 pounds, he thought. He looked over and saw another plate sitting on the kitchen counter, its contents hidden by aluminum foil. He peeled back the foil a couple of inches and revealed a small mountain of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. “Oh God,” Fr. Dan said out loud. “She’s really trying to kill me.”

Staying in decent physical shape was a constant struggle for the 49-year-old priest. The basic lifestyle of a parish pastor did not help. There was precious little free time to exercise on a regular basis. The few times Fr. Dan attempted to start a regular regimen of jogging or weight lifting or attending a local gym, it lasted no more than a month or two. The pressing demands of the job—the endless series of evening committee meetings and especially the midnight phone calls when a parishioner was taken to a hospital emergency room—seemed to take up all of his spare time. The only days when his housekeeper did not prepare a lavish feast were the days he was invited to a special event or a private dinner at a parishioner’s home. Gastronomically speaking, every day was Thanksgiving Day for Fr. Dan. He figured he was about 20 pounds heavier than he ought to be. At six-foot-two with broad shoulders, he hid it fairly well. But he knew that he was at the age when his extra 20 pounds easily could turn into an extra 80 pounds. Overeating was a socially acceptable vice, but Fr. Dan realized that gluttony was just as much a sin as lust. The allure of both sins of the flesh seemed to be more powerful than ever.

Fr. Dan dried his hands then looked at his watch. He still had about an hour before he had to be at a meeting in the church’s social center with the head of the Religious Education program and members of the Liturgy Committee. It was time to begin making plans for this year’s Christmas pageant. Fr. Dan already knew this year’s pageant would be exactly like last year’s—and the year before that and the year before that. Also, he was certain it would be like next year’s and the year after that, etc. That’s what the parishioners wanted and expected, which was fine with him. The Christmas pageant should be a time-honored tradition that evoked warm memories in everyone. What wasn’t so fine with Fr. Dan was attending a three-hour meeting that should be no more than a half-hour meeting.

Fr. Dan went into the living room to watch the news on television. Just as he was about to sit down, the rectory door bell rang. He groaned. The rectory door bell rang often, and at all hours of the day and night. Whenever the bell rang, Fr. Dan could not even guess what it might be. Sometimes it was simple and brief: the groundskeeper saying good night after working late or a parishioner dropping off some paperwork. Other times it was a little more involved: someone with a personal problem in need of a sympathetic ear or a stranger down on his luck looking for a handout. Fr. Dan always was willing to help. After all, his desire to help people was the reason he became a priest. However, he rarely gave out cash, primarily because he rarely had any on him. Also, in most cases he knew the cash would be used to buy drugs or booze. He did invite people inside quite often and fed them, putting the leftover food to good use. On some occasions the reason the doorbell rang was a full-blown crisis: someone just had a stroke; someone was just in a car accident; or someone at hospice was not expected to make it through the night. At these times Fr. Dan dutifully would gather his coat and his “Anointing of the Sick” kit and leave the rectory, and any plans to get a good night’s sleep would have to wait for another time.

Before opening the front door, Fr. Dan peered through the peep hole. After a parish priest was murdered a few years back in a neighboring town by a mentally disturbed man who had come to the rectory door at night, all pastors had been warned by the Archdiocese to be much more careful about answering the door. Fr. Dan always looked through the peep hole before opening the door, not out of concern for his personal safety, but mostly to see if he recognized the person. If it was a parishioner, he wanted a few moment to try and remember the correct name, so he didn’t stumble and fumble once the conversation began. He was always amazed that most parishioners just assumed the priest knew everyone in the parish by name, and were quick to take offense if the priest could not remember, or if he even hesitated.

When he looked through the peep hole, Fr. Dan gasped. It was Anna Rivera. Even through the distorted wide angle, fish-eye lens, she looked gorgeous. Fr. Dan shook his head and groaned. This exact scenario—Anna coming to the rectory door in the evening—was the way a very vivid and sensual dream had begun about a week earlier. At about 2 a.m. that night Fr. Dan had bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat and with his heart pounding, waking up at the very moment in his dream when he and Anna were about to consummate their love. He immediately had jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom to wash his face with ice cold water. He paced around the second floor of the rectory, replaying the events of the dream in his head. It had been so vivid. He could feel her smooth skin as she embraced him. He could taste her neck as he kissed it. As he paced in the dark, there were moments when he was not sure if it had been a dream or not. It seemed that real. Fr. Dan never fell back to sleep that night. He paced some more, and he prayed. He read his Bible for a while. He went downstairs and turned on the TV. He did everything he could to get her out of his mind, but to no avail.

For a moment he thought of not answering the door. She doesn’t know I’m here, he thought. It will be best—for both of us. He looked through the peep hole again and noticed that she was crying. Uh oh, something’s wrong, he thought. His romantic attraction toward her immediately diminished and his pastoral concern for her wellbeing came to the fore. He opened the door and said, “Anna, what’s the matter?”

She pushed her way into the rectory without being invited, and embraced the priest in a tight hug, burying her face into his shoulder. Except for the tears, this was exactly how his dream had begun. Fr. Dan could feel her firm, perfectly-shaped form pressing against him. His pastoral concern waned as his romantic attraction returned. Before he could say or do anything, in fact, even before he could quite figure out what was happening, Anna pulled away from him slightly, looked up and sobbed, “Oh Father, they killed him! They killed him! My boy, my Luis, is dead!”

Instantly, every lustful molecule in Fr. Dan’s body disappeared. He no longer was a lonely man fantasizing about falling in love with a gorgeous woman, but had once again become a dedicated priest focused on serving the needs of others. “What do you mean?” he replied. “You son? Jitterbug? What happened?”

“Oh Father,” Anna moaned. “They shot him. Right in the head! Just this evening, on Flatbush Avenue. He’s dead!”

Fr. Dan led her into the living room and sat her down on the couch. He took a seat next to her. “Who did it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “The druggies he’s been hanging out with, I guess. Oh Father, I told him over and over he was running with the wrong crowd. He was going to get in trouble, get arrested or get hurt. But I never thought they would kill him!” She slumped over, burying her face into his shoulder again, and sobbed uncontrollably. Fr. Dan held her in his arms. He knew there was nothing he could say. The best thing he could do is hold her and let her sob.

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